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Within my heart, a flame doth glow,

Yet words unspoken leave it so;

Through glances soft, I seek to share,

The secret love I humbly bear.

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

DECEMBER 10, 1821

H arriet gripped the letter from her Mentor, her emotions a tangle of trepidation and excitement.

Covering her mouth with her fingers, she exhaled in relief.

From her seat near the fireplace, where the cheerful flames warmed the painted room, Evaline looked up from her needlework.

“You have received good news?”

Harriet nodded. “Rumors of an altercation with Belinda Cooper at Lord Stewart’s card party. It would appear that her new benefactor is Lord Lowe. He was quite soused and handled her a bit roughly in front of the other men.”

Evaline’s delicate features pinched, and Harriet immediately felt like an insensitive lummox for not softening her words, especially given her friend’s own painful past.

“Oh, my. Miss Cooper’s prospects are bleak if she is with Lowe.”

Harriet nodded again, distracted by the realization of how much effort it took to think of others’ troubles when one had never been taught to do so.

Her parents had never bothered with such considerations, but Harriet had decided she must. She needed to be more mindful of her friend’s suffering before carelessly sharing such news.

“That part is not encouraging. However, it means we now know where to look for her. I might know her new address as soon as dinnertime.”

“That is excellent news. What will you say to her when you meet with her?”

Harriet hesitated, tracing the edge of the letter with her forefinger and thumb.

“I do not know. I hope to think of something when I eventually face her. It is beyond the pale what my father has done. Thirteen years, and he threw her out without a farthing?”

A pang of guilt tightened her stomach. She thought of how she had treated Brendan Ridley when he had been accused of murder. Would helping Belinda be enough to atone for that betrayal?

Brendan no longer needed anything from her. He was happily married now. But Belinda had been wronged by her own father. Surely helping her would serve as a fair substitute for the amends Harriet could not make to Brendan. At least, that was the hypothesis she and her Mentor had arrived at.

But until she succeeded in meeting with her father’s former mistress, she could only hope that helping Belinda might ease the shame she carried.

Nevertheless, the missive brought welcome tidings.

She was one step closer to her discussion with the mistreated former mistress of Bertram Hargreaves.

While she could not save every woman in such a predicament, this one was personal.

Her father was a cruel lord, and Harriet had allowed him far too much influence over her life.

This was an opportunity to reclaim her soul, and it could not be wasted.

With one act of charity, she could set things right for Belinda while also taking a stand against her father—rejecting the example he had set along with his callous treatment of those within his sphere.

Somehow, Belinda had become the symbol of her quest to purge her conscience.

Across the room, Evaline returned to her needlework, her face relaxing into contented lines.

She appeared fragile in the sunlight streaming through the window, but Harriet was pleased to see her friend at peace.

After all she had endured these past few years, Evaline deserved some measure of tranquility.

And Harriet was grateful beyond words that they had struck their bargain for Evaline to move in, which had yielded unexpected benefits.

Evaline had taken charge of their hodgepodge household that Harriet had put together these past months, allowing Harriet the freedom to pursue her quest.

Just then, Harriet’s musings were interrupted by a cool draft that chilled her hands and lips.

Turning toward the door, she found it standing open, and there, framed within it, stood the object of her fitful dreams.

Rising swiftly to her feet, she set the letter aside and turned to face her visitor.

“Sebastian?”

His expression was severe, a far cry from the carefree young man she had once known. But then, Harriet supposed, she had given him no reason to greet her with the affinity he had once displayed in Wiltshire all those years ago.

Her stomach tightened as she recalled the egregious lie she had told him the day before—a man who had never wronged her.

A lie that had left her staring at the sought-after painting half the night, endlessly debating the ethics of her deceit and the burden of her guilt until she had fallen asleep in her chair.

She lifted a hand to rub discreetly at her stiff neck, still protesting such ill-advised sleeping habits.

“That girl, Jem, told me to show myself in,” he said, his tone flat and unyielding.

It took all the dignity Harriet possessed not to cringe at Sebastian’s skeptical announcement.

Her little staff were hardworking, but unaccustomed to the ways of aristocratic households.

Until now, it had seemed somewhat irrelevant to address Mrs. Finch’s or Jem’s lack of etiquette.

She had simply been trying to pull a new staff together.

After all, she had not received any callers at her townhouse since—Harriet paused to calculate—late August. Perhaps it was time to have a word with Mrs. Finch about the formalities of receiving callers.

From across the room, Evaline cleared her throat, setting her needlework aside as she rose gracefully to her feet.

“I shall organize some tea, shall I?”

It was, of course, a rhetorical question.

Evaline could have easily rung the nearby bell, yet instead, she swept from the room with elegant composure, leaving Harriet and Sebastian in private as he stepped out of her way.

Harriet fortified her nerves as she and Sebastian both watched her graceful departure, he having stepped fully into the painted room to clear the exit.

Swallowing hard, Harriet pinned a friendly smile to her face, though her instinct was to run after Evaline and avoid this encounter entirely. Her heart pounded in her chest at the sight of his grim—but beloved—countenance.

“Will we get tea?”

Sebastian’s voice held a glimmer of humor, his facial features softening slightly as he turned back to her.

“I would not count on it,” Harriet replied, allowing a twist of her lips that might pass for a smile. “I believe Lady Wood is allowing us our privacy.”

He gave a brief smile of acknowledgment, as if she had confirmed his suspicions. “Is Lady Wood in residence?”

Harriet bobbed her head in affirmation. “She is a permanent houseguest. Her presence has been quite a boon to me. I … recently made some changes, and Evaline has been assisting me with the repercussions.”

Sebastian’s brows drew together, a flicker of curiosity crossing his features. Yet he did not comment on her strange declaration. Instead, he stepped farther into the room and, with a subtle gesture toward an armchair, asked, “May I?”

Harriet nodded before lowering herself onto her gilt-framed settee.

She knew the seat highlighted her to the best advantage—the light from the window illuminating her to perfection, while the luxurious backdrop of the painted room framed her with fine art.

It should have made her feel confident to be viewed in this exact spot.

But instead, she felt frivolous for having designed a room for such a purpose.

Sebastian was far too intuitive—both about her character and artistry in general—to miss the intention behind her placement.

Quelling the urge to fidget, she waited with the air of someone who had all the time in the world, though her racing pulse betrayed her carefully constructed composure. But then, he caught her attention, and her own vanities were forgotten.

His blond hair fell loosely around his face, like the mane of a proud jungle cat.

His square face, bronzed by foreign suns, seemed somehow harsher than she remembered.

The slash of a smile revealed white teeth as he contemplated her with an expression of mild fondness—a look that unsettled her far more than a glare would have.

His long, hard frame remained in excellent condition after all these years—broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips—yet there were differences now.

His legs were more muscular, hugged by form-fitting buckskins.

And his style of dress had shifted. Gone were the rigid restraints of English nobility.

Instead, his white linen shirt billowed slightly, his cravat loosely tied in a knot she did not recognize.

Overall, he had the appearance of a man who had pursued the Grand Masters of the Continent—and been changed by them.

“It occurred to me that I was not particularly friendly when I called on you yesterday.” Sebastian’s deep voice was softer now, though it conveyed an intensity that made Harriet’s breath catch.

“Seeing you after all these years … It took all my nerve to visit the girl I admired so ardently as a young man.”

The admission did unexpected things to Harriet’s equilibrium.

Her stomach tightened; her hands grew restless in her lap.

But most troubling was the sharp spike of guilt, a reminder of the lie she had told him.

That wretched painting. Those planks of wood covered in oil paint, the brushstrokes of a skilled artist—they meant more to her than she cared to admit to anyone. Even Sebastian. Especially Sebastian.

“It … was unnerving for me too,” she finally managed, offering a peaceable response after her dismissive words the day before.

“I was quite alarmed when Evaline told me of your visit. The … timing of it was …” Harriet’s mind wandered to the strange events of the past few months and to the sudden reappearance of the only person she had truly held dear.